Sammy
by RemyMcKwakker
Summary: "Why, Bobby? Why can't we be happy?" Dean contemplates. Set after AHBL 2. T because Dean.


**I don't know how this came to me, but I realized if I don't write this I'll possibly go crazy.**

**It's set directly after _All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 2._**

* * *

Sam is draped across the seat with his head in your lap, fast asleep. The kid really is exhausted. Finding and finally killing the son of a bitch who'd killed your mom and his girlfriend really takes a piece out of one, you figure. And for once, you don't mind the fact that he's sleeping in your lap; for God's sake, the kid _died_. How can you refuse him anything after that?

You're bone-tired too, but you can't sleep. Not until you get to Bobby's, because after what happened what you need is home, not a motel, and Bobby's place is as close to home as anything you've ever known.

Ellen isn't in the car with you - you dropped her off at the Roadhouse (or its ruins, to be precise) ages ago, because she was frantic to see what happened to Jo, and to see if she could find anyone. Bobby is in the back, and even though you're not looking at him you know he's staring at the back of your head, because you can feel his gaze boring holes into your skull.

You want to say something funny to lighten up the atmosphere, but you can't bring yourself to. The YED is dead, Sam _was_ dead but isn't anymore, and in a year from now you'll be dead. Nothing seems right, how can it?

_It isn't fair_, you think. _None of this is fair_. What haven't you and Sam given, what haven't you sacrificed? Mom and Dad, and Jessica, and Pastor Jim, and it's still not enough that anyone the pair of you ever cared about tends to die. And then this time it was Sam, and you remember the feeling of utter horror and despair because despite your difference you're nothing without Sam. You did what you had to, and you don't regret it, but Sam ... he is an entirely different story altogether.

Even in sleep the kid doesn't have peace; he hasn't been still for the entirety of the trip back to Bobby's. He tosses and turns, and at times he cries out, and each time it's the same thing - your name. And you know the cause of his anguish, you know nothing can fix this because in a year's time you'll be dead and he'll have no one to look up to and protect him. And it kills you.

"Why, Bobby?" you ask, your voice echoing in the silence.

Bobby doesn't answer, and you're grateful because you don't want to hear how stupid you were to offer your life for Sam's, because you know you weren't and Bobby doesn't understand and you'll _never_ regret this because it means Sam's alive. You just continue.

"Why can't we be happy, Bobby? Me and Sam ... what haven't we given?" You know how incredibly selfish you sound, but you don't care. "Sam _died_, Bobby. He died. And now I'll die. Why can't we just be all right, just for once? Is it too much to ask?"

Bobby knows, and you know too, that in this life that _is _too much to ask, but he doesn't say that out loud and neither do you.

"I'm sick, Bobby," you tell him. "I'm sick of this life. You know what I want to do now?"

Bobby still doesn't reply, just stares for you and waits for you to continue. "I want to have that normal life Sam's always wanted," you say. "I want to settle down, and I don't know, find a girl, maybe get Sam to go back to school ..." You haven't talked about this to anyone, least of all Sam, but you can't help yourself now. You can't keep this in, and Bobby is the perfect person to turn to because he won't judge you and he doesn't need protection from you.

You don't say anything else, because you can't. Bobby is now looking at you in that understanding way that tells you he's been in your shoes a million times before, and you both know what you want isn't possible because you can leave this life but this life can't leave you. Like Sammy, the kid went all the way to California just to be away from it all, and it followed him there. Like Bobby, who's old and instead of a peaceful retirement or something he's stuck with two idjits and demons on his ass.

So you sigh, and you keep on driving.

* * *

You're stopped by a cop and asked to pull over a mile into the next city in your path, and you mentally groan. You want to speed up and leave because if you're recognized it'll be back to prison and maybe this time you won't be able to protect Sammy so well. But for some reason you stop, mainly because you're too tired for a car chase. Besides, if you run the cops will follow, they'll smell a rat and that's more dangerous.

"Hi, officer," you say, flashing him your most winning smile.

"Hello," he grunts, like he's not happy to be here. _Join the club, buddy. We got cookies._

"So what did I do wrong?" you ask, because you want to get this over with.

The officer points at Sam. "Why's he like that?"

"He's asleep," you answer. Can't he see that? Your baby brother is asleep and if this idiot doesn't shut up and go away soon Sammy'll wake up.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing," you reply, frowning. "He's just tired."

The officer squints at Sam suspiciously, and then at you. "What happened to you?" he asks.

"Nothing," you repeat, thanking God you stopped on the way to clean yourself and Sammy up a little.

"You've got a bruise on your face," the officer points out.

"I, uh, I got into a fight," you tell him. "With my brother. A misunderstanding; we're good now." You gesture to said brother, sleeping in your lap. It's a wonder he's managed to fit in the seat in the position he's in, but any fool can see he's not comfortable.

"Okay," the officer says. Then he notices Bobby. "Who's that?"

"Our uncle," you tell him.

"Where are you folks going?"

"Home," you tell him. "We're coming back from camping."

"Can I see some ID?"

You pull out the one that says 'Dean Mahagoff' and hand it to him; he examines it, and returns it. "You can go," he tells you. "And don't let him sleep like that next time, it isn't safe."

You nod, and flash another brilliant smile. "Sure thing, officer."

* * *

The sun is overhead when you reach Bobby's, and you're so tired it's a wonder you're still conscious. You wake Sam by gently shaking his shoulder, and you can't help but smile a little when he bolts up and hits his head on the steering wheel. "Ow," he says sorrowfully. "That hurt."

"Watch it," you say to him. "Come on now, we're here."

He looks around, clearly disoriented, and then asks, "We're at Bobby's?"

You nod. "Come on now, Sasquatch, you can sleep once we're inside."

* * *

But you can't.

You watch him while he sleeps, you study the rise and fall of his chest and compare it to when there wasn't any, when he was on his back on an old mattress, dead and gone. You watch his face as his expressions change, from tense to relaxed to childish. You watch him as he tosses and turns, still not peaceful, and finally settles, curled up with only his head sticking out of his blanket. And you resist the urge to just put him back in the car and drive for the rest of your life, to far far away and safety and solitude.

At some point he begins to speak, and you can't hear what he's saying but you hear your name over and over again, and you sigh because dammit, you two deserve at least _some_ peace right now. Hell, a fucking celebration. And while you'd happily do go to a bar and pick up some chicks, you can't leave your brother because he died, and because you're going to die too.

He moves, and now you can't see his face anymore, you can't tell if he's breathing or not, and it scares you. You get out of your bed and walk around his, and relax immeasurably when you see him breathing, even if he's still saying your name over and over again in that sad little voice that takes you back to a decade ago, back when everything could be fixed with Dad's .45 and salt.

So you do the only thing that seems right at this moment - you get into his bed and put your arms around his waist and draw him close, until his face is in you neck, and you can feel his warm breathing and his heart thudding away resolutely, and you're so grateful that he's alive that you really can't think of anything else. Fuck 'no chick-flick moments'. This is Sammy.

And it is his heartbeat that lulls you into sleep, because if Sammy's alive and safe and fine, then you're happy and that's all that matters to you.

Sammy.

* * *

**This is my first time writing from a second-person point of view. I hope it doesn't ruin the overall effect of the story.**

**Please tell me what you thought of it. Thank you :)**

**-Peace**


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